Trigger Point
by ThreeBlackRoses
Summary: When the Iron Curtain descends once again across Europe, how will the war-torn globe react? Russia knows what he wants, and this time, he may just get it. Rated T for violence in later chapters. It is war, after all.
1. Division

A/N: Hello peoples, ThreeBlackRoses here,

I was recently introduced to the magic of Hetalia and this little plot bunny sprang into my mind. Keeping in mind that I have yet to take European History and that I would probably ignore, edit and otherwise adjust history to my means, I feel the need to introduce you to the characters of my fic.

*Spoiler Alert* (as much as fanfic can be spoiled.)

**Germany**: This is the Germany featured in Hetalia: Axis Powers. Due to the setting, he is now Post WWI and WWII Germany. He represents what is now known as West Germany. He will be identified as Germany in this story.

**East Germany**: I do not believe that East Germany is ever personified in Hetalia and hopefully never in an adult form. In appearance he perfectly mirrors Prussia, and, in agreement with KivaEmber's ReBorn verse drabbles, he is Prussia's re-incarnation. He will be identified as East, for simplicity's sake.

**Prussia:** This is the Prussia featured in Hetalia: Axis Powers. His appearance is also where I'll begin to screw with history.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not the show, not the nations, heck, not even the clothes on my back. Feed the starving artist? Anyone?

Warnings: Violence, improbability, manipulation/denial of minor historical events/persons for the sole purpose of furthering the plot, and, of course, ridiculously hopeless idealism.

All nations will be referred to by their country's name, as I am too lazy to remember everyone's real name, and this is a political fic anyway.

Get on with the fic, you say? Very well:

_**1. Division**_

"_And we shall be as never before, two nations united by the most common of goals, a peace and prosperity shared by all. We shall be as brothers, markedly different but connected on a level mankind has yet to probe."_

"Well, what do you think?" Germany questioned, hands resting lightly on his young brother's shoulders as they watched his Prime Minister address the world on the eve of East Germany's ascension to independent statehood.

"I think I'm glad that they're finally getting around to setting everything up. Not to imply that I find living in your home the least bit distasteful, brother, but I feel well and ready to inhabit my own land. It tastes of victory, albeit a bitter one." East Germany replied, massaging his temples with a hand.

"Bitter?"

"Come now, Brüder. However dearly you may love me, your bosses feel no such kinship to my people. I am but a reminder of a shattered nation that apparently refuses to die," East shook his head slowly, smiling up at his elder sibling.

"Nonsense I won't stand for any such talk about my family. Prussia is dead, and East must stand apart from West. This is_ right_, Brüder, and let no one tell you otherwise," Germany snarled in return, lifting his hands to the other's temples and massaging in slow, deliberate circles. "Headache any better?" he inquired tone softening as his fingers slid through the younger's white hair.

"Yes," East lied, wincing as the migraine rattling about within his cranium threatened to rip his skull in two.

"Liar." Germany's calm tone lacked discernable accusation, but his eyes held the concern of a father when East looked up. "Tell the truth. Will you be alright to attend the ceremonies today?"

"Of course," East cried, startled into motion. "Our nations have been planning his for years now. We can't just move the date because I have a headache," he drew out the syllables, sounding so like the petulant child he had until recently been that Germany smiled and resumed stroking his "son's" brow.

"Be that as it may, should you be too ill to be in attendance, only our bosses would truly notice the difference, and even they will be preoccupied come time for the presentation. Besides," he continued with a grin, "I could just tell them that Italy's jabbering finally sent you over the edge. We both know they'd believe it."

"Be that as it may," East began, before the renewed pain of his headache stole the worlds from his lips and sent an array of colors dancing across the backs of his eyelids.

"Be that as it may," he began again, grinding the words out with determination, " I have an obligation to my country to make an appearance. I promise," he mollified at Germany's disbelieving stare, "On my honor as a young, impressionable country, I will beg out as early as possible, veg about in my new home and generally accustom myself to unfamiliar territory."

"See that you do," Germany grunted, only slightly more comfortable with this plan. He removed his hands from East's head and stared down at his younger brother. Deceptively innocent-looking blue eyes stared back, the only visible difference between the young nation and his former self. A minor detail, thought Germany, but one that had won other nation's to their cause in the first place. Hesitant to put another Prussia in a position of power, the world's major powers were hesitant to allow East Germany statehood of its own. Finally, after years of work , countless hours of training poured into the impressionable young nation and personal interviews with every nation individually, East's first chancellor was being named today.

Germany's thoughts broke off abruptly as a cry of "Pastaaaaaa~~!" echoed throughout his house.

East smiled and rose from his seat, turning the television off as he went. "I suppose that's our cue," he chuckled, "Italy's late for everything."

With a resigned sigh Germany conceded the point and followed his younger brother out of the room, worried frown still shadowing his normally stoic expression.

* * *

Germany knew his brother was in pain. He could see it in the grim set of the younger man's mouth and in the tightened skin around his eyes.

Yet somehow the younger man lasted through the entire ceremony, through lengthy speeches by important political figures and the first address of his own chancellor to the people of East Germany.

Despite Germany's fretting about his brother's health, the actual ceremony went off without a hitch. Two nations gathered together as one people to celebrate the independence of their brother country. So seamlessly, if fact, did the people come together, that Germany knew for a fact that something was wrong.

"You worry too much Brüder," East scolded him sullenly when he voiced his growing concern. "It's a headache, not cancer. I'll get over it. In fact, I bet it's nothing more than my people's excitement."

"But-"

"Enough already!" East snapped. "I have no more patience for conspiracy theory today. You saw your people's joy. You heard my chancellor's speech. Now go home and let me rest as you instructed!"

Germany didn't bother to add that he wished his brother would rest with him nearby. He simply stood and inclined a respectful half-bow to his young sibling. "Good day then."

"I'll come by tomorrow, when I'm feeling better." As much of an apology as East will ever give him, Ludwig knows.

"Noon?" Apology accepted.

"Eleven. Let's live on the wild side."

"Understood. I will see you then."

Dusk enveloped the world outside of his brothers door, muffling and muting every light and sound. The people had long since retired and the air felt taught with tension to Germany's frayed nerves, almost as though this entire community was waiting for the most minute of signals to erupt.

Dismissing is fears as irrational conspiracy theories brought on by his worry, he continued on his way, intent on sleeping some before his brothers arrival.

* * *

"East Germany has become its own nation today, da? You find this exciting?" Russia looked down at his comatose companion, knowing full well that no answer awaited him.

"Do not worry, darling," he soothed in a falsely jubilant tone, twining his fingers through the others hair and curling the strands around his gloved fingers. "Don't worry. Soon enough we shall reclaim what is ours."

A/N: And so ends the first chapter. This is the unedited version and a newer version will be posted after I hear back from reviewers/my on-again-off-again beta. Flames will be saved and used to heat my house this upcoming winter. Critiques are embraced and dearly loved by the author.

Thanks all,

TBR


	2. Splinter

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not the show, not the nations, heck, not even the clothes on my back. Feed the starving artist? Anyone?

Warnings: Violence, improbability, manipulation/denial of minor historical events/persons for the sole purpose of furthering the plot, and, of course, ridiculously hopeless idealism.

All nations will be referred to mostly by their country's name, as I am too lazy to remember/look up everyone's real name, and this is a political fic anyway.

_**2. Splinter**_

The headache endured. It followed East Germany home and slept beside him. It rose with him in the morning and watched as he made his coffee and tossed two aspirin down his throat. It answered the phone and listened as he spoke with his new boss of the events the night before. The headache followed East Germany into the bathroom, where, the pungent scent of vomit still hanging like a shroud, he answered a phone call from his brother.

"Hello?" East Germany rasped, clutching the receiver with the hand that was not preoccupied with clutching the porcelain edge of the bathtub.

"Bruder? I thought you were coming over this morning. Are you still ill?"

East considered admitting to the debilitating pain in his head. He considered telling his brother everything and having him rush over and sit with him through the waves of nausea that wracked his body and blurred his vision. But some strange forced stayed his tongue. Pride, fear, or perhaps even some raw premonition prevented him from voicing his condition.

Instead he forced himself to straighten, take a deep breath and declare, "I'm fine. Something just…came up."

"What something?" West questioned his tone reminiscent of a hundred incidents from East's mischievous childhood, making the younger nation cringe with guilt.

"A meeting something," he snapped in return, scrabbling to save face with a plausible excuse. "I'll come by another time."

"Would you like me to come by for a little while instead?" His brother asked kindly, only adding to the wretched guilt building in East's chest. "You must be tired."

"No!" East barked. "For the last time, I'm busy!"

He shot to his feet to punctuate his point and regretted it instantaneously as nausea rolled through him. He slammed the phone down into the Formica counter in his bathroom, effectively cutting off the conversation and fell to his knees, leaning forward over the toilet to retch helplessly for a moment, stomach long since emptied.

Staggering to his feet he seized the phone and hurled it out of the room in a fit of frustration before meandering down and stumbling across the foyer to lock his front door and draw the blinds, coating the room in a refreshingly cooling layer of shadow.

Too tired to return to his room, he curled up beneath a quilt on his sofa and drifted into a miserable, restless parody of sleep. He tossed fitfully, helpless at the mercy of innumerable nightmares. He dreamt of dying alone without a heart beating in his chest, of tall men with their visages shadowed by dark cowls that dropped down over the loose cut of their long robes, and of constantly slipping just to the edge of his dream world but being unable to wake, lying trapped as though just beneath the surface of a pool, the sun caressing his face but dark water smothering the breath in his lungs.

After an eternity of terrors, East jerked awake with a gasp as a caconophy of sound exploded from just outside of his front room, startling him back into consciousness.

It was West, fit to be tied and trying valiantly to break down his locked door.

East rolled over and attempted to rise before another wave of disorienting pain left him gasping for breath, curled pathetically on his side, arms wrapped around his body as though he meant to hold himself together.

He flinched at the brittle shriek of breaking glass as his brother finally gave up and broke the window just beside the door. A moment passed in silence and East assumed his brother had reached around to the doorknob and was letting himself in. He heard the door's new, unused hinges squeak softly as the door slid open, followed the reassuringly heavy sound of his brother's powerful tread proceeding down his front hallway.

A moment later, West rounded the corner and stepped into the living room.

For one brief instant furious sapphire met dull, feverish teal. Then, in the span of a heartbeat, West was at his brother's side, hand snapping to his forehead to feel for a temperature. East flinched at the pressure assailing his throbbing skull, but permitted West to continue checking him over.

He waited in agony for the inevitable question bound to some from West's lips: Why? Why did you let this happen? Why wouldn't you let me help?

It never did.

The hand that stroked his brow remained as careful and gentle as ever and the arms that scooped him up off the couch and held him against his brother's solid torso, near enough to feel his steady, beating heart felt warm and secure, just as they had during his childhood.

It wasn't until he was safely tucked into his bed once more and his brother had brought him a cool glass of water and a mixing bowl so he wouldn't have so far to move to dry heave, that the elder brother sat down and laid a hand over his younger sibling's forearm.

"Are you alright?"

"No," East rasped helplessly, blinking up at West through tired eyes. "I feel like I'm going to die. Is that normal for a new nation?"

"Definitely not," the elder replied, pushing back East's bangs to examine his burning forehead and feverish eyes again.

"Why is this happening?" East asked, feeling scared and helpless and knowing that it showed on his face.

"I don't know, but I plan to find out. Can you manage for an hour or two until I can get someone here to help you? I'll bring up some food and some extra blankets. I'm going to try and get to the bottom of this," West explained, running a soothing hand through his brother's hair.

"Yes," The younger rasped, feeling himself fast fading into a deeper sleep than before.

"Sleep tight, brudelein," Germany said softly, closing the door solidly behind him. His instincts told him to stay close to his brother and protect him from this awful pain, but they were no longer one nation; staying near could do more harm than good. Instead, he called the new chancellor and informed him that his brother, the nation of East Germany, was terribly ill and could he please send someone over to watch him for a few days.

Once he felt comfortable that someone was indeed on their way, he threw his coat back on and walked out the door. England seemed like a good place to start, particularly seeing as France had been hanging around the island nations home considerably more often than usual lately. If they didn't have an inkling as to what was going on, he would be at a total loss.

On the way, he opened up his phone and dialed Feliciano. The Northern Italy may be a hazard to have around at times, but he was much, much safer by Germany's side.

* * *

Alfred F. Jones, the personification of America and self proclaimed Hero, wanted to kill someone.

More specifically, he wanted to kill his twin's new prime minister.

Unfortunately, the man himself was currently hiding in the northern reaches of Canada if he was on the continent at all.

Even more unfortunately, he had sent Canada himself to convey his message.

The man had worked a change in his formerly mild mannered brother than America absolutely hated. Where before he had been kind and considerate, Matthew suddenly snapped at everyone, growled at his brothers and generally ostracized the world's population.

Every time America brought it up, Canada argued so bitterly in the man's favor that the southern brother finally dropped the subject and contented himself to venting to an equally concerned England and silently stewing with fury at the man who was ruining his brother. Secretly, America knew that once Canada's people turned on the man, like the Germans after Hitler, his brother would return to normal. He just couldn't help hoping that day would come sooner, rather than later.

Today, however, the prime minister's news turned out to be the straw that broke the camel's back. "Russia!" he exploded at his twin. "He's signing a treaty with Russia? Matt, I won't let this happen."

"You won't let it happen?" his brother had asked mimicking his authoritative tone of voice. "What can you do to stop us? This treaty will be good for my people Al."

"Good? Good? Matthew, this will make you Russia's pet. It's just the first step, can't you see?" Alfred asked, desperate to make him comprehend.

"It's just the first step? No Al, that happened a long time ago. This treaty will keep Russia from devouring my nation and my people. Don't you see?" For the first time in months Matthew matched his brother's emotion and Alfred almost found himself nodding in agreement before he caught himself, disgusted and stepped forward to seize his brother by the shoulders and shake some sense into him.

"He can't have you, Matt. He can ravage the world, but he can't have you," Alfred declared, determined to make his twin see truth.

Instead Matthew violently slapped his hands away and stepped out of reach, livid. "Last time I checked, frère, I wasn't your to give away," he snarled before turning on his heel and exiting the room, leaving his Prime Minister's notification of the treaty on Alfred's oaken desk.

His brother stood for several long moments, heart breaking into pieces as he watched his oldest friend stride away.

Moments later, once he finally felt equal to the task of moving once more he dragged himself to his telephone and dialed England. England would know what to do. England always knew what to do.

* * *

Russia watched with calculating violet eyes as the figure on the bed stirred, restless with agony and smirked, rolling a small, circular amber stone between his fingers.

"Not long now at all," he crooned, staring beyond the figure and out the tower window at his boss speaking with Canada's just outside in the garden. "Everything is coming together splendidly, don't you agree?" he asked the fidgeting frame on the bed, laying one hand on the unnaturally cool and permanently pale cheek.

* * *

A/N: Woohoo, another teenie-tiny chapter. I'm sorry it took so long, NaNoWriMo got all my November motivation and I finally found this little tidbit hiding on my flash drive after 12 or so days of looking. I hope you enjoy it and new updates should be coming more often and bigger. Any guesses as to who the figure on the bed is?


	3. Smoke Signals

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not the show, not the nations, heck, not even the clothes on my back. Feed the starving artist? Anyone?

Warnings: Violence, improbability, manipulation/denial of minor historical events/persons for the sole purpose of furthering the plot, and, of course, ridiculously hopeless idealism.

_**3. Smoke Signals**_

The thick, black smoke rolled languidly from the stout, blackened stump of a chimney's mouth, with utter disregard for the ominous clouds gathering overhead. The roiling black masses threatened to drench the unsuspecting ground below. America pulled his jacket closer around his shoulders and adjusted his grip on his satchel, hurrying down the lane towards the stately Victorian manor at the end, eager to out run the coming rain.

Another fierce gust of wind tore at his clothing, ripping at it as though determined to tear the garmets from his body. The hurricane gust sent the lawns uncut grass flying, pressing it first left, then right, always close to the ground.

Alfred frowned, unsettled by the house's outward obvious disrepair. Arthur prized his home and garden and kept both in pristine condition. He unwound by working outdoors and for his grass to grow so long and his roses to die so young on the bush seemed impossible to America. As he redoubled his pace, vaguely unsettled, a thunderous sound reached his ears.

America broke into an open jog, trotting forward with renewed vigor. Drawing near to the door, he realized the cacophonous noise emanated from a figure on the porch pounding ceaselessly on the door. Further inspection reveal the figure to be none other that Ludwig, looking none to pleased with the state of the world that fine Tuesday morning.

Hastening more quickly yet America raised a hand skyward and called out a greeting, although surely unintelligible from even that narrowing distance.

Ludwig spun around as though electrocuted by the indiscernible words, relaxing only when he ascertained the identity of the approaching figure.

_Not that he ever really_ _relaxes_, America groused silently, nodding in acknowledgement of Germany's responding salute.

He took the porch's bleached steps two at a time, long legs pulling him effortlessly to stand beside the rigid Germanic nation.

"What's shakin' Luddy?" he chortled, slapping the other nation's broad shoulder with an open palm. "I thought you'd be partying it up with your little bro." Worries aside, he genuinely wondered what the other nation could want so badly he would travel to England of all places in the middle of the day.

Germany shook the hand off with a grimace and turned his attention back to the door. "My brother feels…unwell today," he replied equivocally. "I came to see England on the off chance that he would know of some reason, political or otherwise for that to be. Unfortunately, it seems whatever afflicts East is catching. Or perhaps it's me. For some reason, I can knock until my knuckles bleed and _**no one**_ answers the door."

America flinched unconsciously when Germany's voice unexpectedly rose at the end of his response. "So," he ventured uncertainly, "you _can_ talk like a human being? Not, y'know, like a robot?" The look he received in response could have killed what remained of England's tattered rose bushes. "Wait," he continued slowly, thinking hard, "Iggy's not answering the door? What if he's hurt? He needs a hero!"

"If you break my door down again," a voice threatened from the other side of the white, wooden barrier, "I will kill you so dead your economy will feel it for centuries."

"Iggy!" America cheered. "I knew you weren't dead on the kitchen floor."

"Not dead, no,' the older nation answered, swinging the door open and observing the two young men on his porch. "But yes, in the kitchen. I was cooking and I couldn't hear you over the sound of the pots rattling together."

America and Germany exchanged an alarmed glance and England's heavy brows knitted together in irritation.

"I don't suppose you'd like a sample," he asked nastily.

"We're fine," American began hurriedly, only to be cut off by the German beside him.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd like something entirely different."

Something in his tone gave even England cause to halt in his snide response to America and give the other nation another quick glance over.

"Yes," he said at last, leaning back into his house and scanning Germany's eyes with his own. "I suppose it is all the same to me. Please, come in."

He opened the door wide and disappeared inside. Walking behind him, just in front of Germany, America noticed for the first time how the older nations normally crisp, business-like gait had slowed, morphing into a jerky, meandering stride. Now that he thought about it, England's shoulders looked more stooped than usual and his face unusually pallid, with dark bags forming beneath his eyes. He inhaled to inquire about them before deciding against it. With Germany just two paces behind him, England would surely deny any sickness.

He would wait and ask if they chanced to be alone.

England motioned them into the drawing room with a tilt of his head and took a seat on the room's smallest armchair, fingering velour worn by centuries of hands running over it. America and Germany sat across from him either end of the sofa. America propped his feet up on the coffee table between them, pointedly ignoring the filthy look England directed his way.

The older nation sighed and turned to Ludwig. "What was it you needed help with then?" he asked, looking anywhere but at America examining the sole of his boot. "Problems with Italy?"

"Why would he come to you for advice in his love life?" America guffawed as Germany flushed carnation pink to the roots of his short blonde hair.

"And _what_ would you know about my love life?" England asked icily. America merely flashed him a sly smile in response and resumed examining his footwear.

"That wasn't what I came to ask," Germany broke in forcefully, steering the conversation nearer to a productive track. "My brother is sick. I wanted to know what could have caused it. We don't catch colds, England. Something is wrong, and I want to know what."

England paused, leaning forward so as to prop his elbows on his knees and support his chin with one palm. "No,' he agreed. "We do not get sick without dire cause. You paid attention, of course. Nothing wrong with his economy? No diseases ravaging his people?"

"Not even an outbreak of the common cold and you know it too," Germany affirmed.

England's attention shifted inward for a moment, contemplating silently. "There have been…rumors," he began, "that some of the nations are dissatisfied with their role in our global community."

"What do they want with my brother?" Germany demanded.

"_Oui Alemange_, that would be the question," an unmistakable voice drawled from the doorway.

America straightened immediately, swiveling in his seat to see France standing not five paces behind him. He shot England an incredulous glance, which the older nation met with cool indifference.

"That's not an answer," Germany pointed out.

France tilted his head in agreement before gesturing dismissively with a hand. "I hadn't thought I'd need to point it out," he replied in a tone oily enough to grease a rusty hinge, earning a low murmur of distaste from America. "Whoever stands to gain the most from splitting Germany, or even from another devastating war."

"War?" Germany questioned. "Who would want another war?"

"Another fine question from_ l'Alemange_," France drawled. "It could bolster economies, or destroy them. In short, another war could change the face of the world entirely."

"This hardly seems the opportune time," England cut in. "If there ever is an opportune time for war, that is."

"Yeah, and why wait until they were about to split up, anyway?" America interjected. "Why not cause a ruckus by splitting a whole country."

"Perhaps to prove that our goals cannot be achieved?" Germany ventured, expression thoughtful and guarded. "That two nations cannot operate separate but conjoined.

"That could very well be," England conceded, frown deepening at the thought of such intentions populating the world community.

"I need to consider these possibilities," Germany sighed, rising. "Thank you for your hospitality, England, but I will take my leave. America. France." He nodded to each nation in turn, then spun crisply and strode down England's hall, out his front door and away without another word.

"Jeez," America began. "That guy can sure be frigid when he wants to be."

"I'm sure he's under plenty of stress," England admonished, shooting his former charge an irritated glare for his discourtesy.

"Be that as it may," France interrupted, tossing himself down into Germany's now-empty spot on the couch, "_l'Amerique_ has a point. Most distressing, how he marched out of here."

"America turned the glare he' used to return England's withering look to France. "Is there anywhere else you could be for a little while?" he asked, icicles dripping from his words.

France simply grinned his most infuriating grin and looked to England. "Could it be the _moi_ has been requested to leave a room? And fully clothed, too!"

"Just go, frog," England answered testily, waving the flirtatious nation to the door.

"Very well," France sighed, shoulders sagging with contrived angst. "Call me when you yearn for my presences once more."

"More like 'if,'" America muttered. England shot him a silencing look, before turning his attention back to France, who was currently preoccupied with slinking from the room with the most hangdog expression he could muster plastered across his face.

Only once the other nation had vanished from sight around the corner did England turn his attention back to the sole remaining guest in the room.

"What in the hell is France doing here?" America snarled, whirling on England the instant the flirtatious nation vacated the room.

"I really don't see," England replied testily, "how my houseguests are any of your business."

"Where have I heard that before?" America muttered darkly. Aloud, he said, "You were the one who talked about the 'global community' right? I should know as much about your relationships as you know about mine. Besides, Russia's already staking a claim in Canada; I don't want France to, like, conquer England, y'know?"

"Fat chance," England replied flippantly, "but what's wrong with Canada now?"

America took a deep breath, looked over his shoulder to ascertain that France was not standing in the doorway, eaves dropping and emptied his thoughts onto England's antique carpeting. He shared all of his concerns with his one-time ruler, that Russia would continue to ingress into Canadian territory until they became impossible to tell apart, that his brother would be lost to him forever, that if Mattie ever did come to his senses he would be too far gone to reason with and, most of all, that he, himself, the Hero, would not be strong enough to save him.

England listened patiently throughout his torrential explanation and sat in silence for several minutes after he finished, mulling over this new influx of information. Finally, looking more deeply tired than he had yet that day, England slowly replied.

"I suppose the only thing we can do is wait them out," he sighed, shifting to a more comfortable position in his chair.

"How so?" America asked, confused. He had expected to be sent home to try and talk some sense into his brother, not twiddle his thumbs and watch Matthew self destruct.

"The damage has been done," England explained, grimacing, "and we can do nothing until someone else makes the first move. Attacking Canada will achieve nothing but earning its people's animosity and talking to his obviously does no good at all."

America, who had gone rigid at the prospect of attacking his brother, clenched one hand into a fist before forcing his body to relax and nodding his head. "So we wait for Russia to make it clear what he intends to do. Makes sense, I suppose, but say his intentions aren't bad in the beginning. What then? Do we sit by as his plans become steadily more notorious?"

"That," England said, standing up and rolling his shoulders, "is a battle to be fought in a political arena. We leave those wars to our politicians."

America mirrored the older nation, standing and stretching before turning to the door. "Hey," he called over his shoulder, "You feeling okay? You're lookin' a little under the weather."

"I'm just tired," England replied, shrugging. "My economy's been experiencing some…turbulence. Give me a week and I will be fine."

"Whatever you say old man," America replied lightly, shrugging into his jacket. "See you later then."

England stepped around America to open the door and prop it up with a rubber stopper. "Yes, I don't doubt that you will," he replied, feigning exasperation.

America leapt off the porch without a backwards glance, intent on reaching home and requesting that his boss join his efforts to help Canada return to his senses.

Behind him, England shut the door with a sharp report, standing in his hall and leaning his head against the heavy wood for a long moment, until he heard France's soft step behind him.

"Something ails _mon petit Canada_, then?" the nation inquired and England didn't even need to turn around to see his head titled inquisitively to the side.

"Yes, you bloody frog, and as long as Russia had his claws in Matthew something's going to ail us all. I'm sure he's not in it alone, but what other nation would be mad enough to help him?"

"Who indeed_, l'Angleterre_?" France echoed, voice sounding hollow even in the enclosed space of the entryway.

England, struck by his fellow nation's odd tone, pushed himself upright from the door and began to turn, only to jerk forward and fall to his knees with a sharp cry at the explosion of agony at the back of his skull. He braced a hand on the floor and turned to France, his other hand raised in front of his face to avoid another blow from the clay pot France held, snatched from his own cabinet.

France seized the extended limb and pushed it off to one side. "Who indeed," he repeated, the skin around his mouth tight with stress and his eyes burning with a loathing turned entirely inward. "Who indeed?"

England saw the pot descend once more before the world burned white, then faded to a swirled combination of color and noise and finally fell entirely black.

A/N: A chapter entirely in one location? From me? Impossible! Yet here it is. Four months late, but hey, it's the thoughts that counts, right? As usual, it's unbeta'd, but I've read and re-read it so many times my eyes nearly bled, so I hope it's presentable.

In other news, I know I'm a nasty person and I'd like to apologize in advance to all fans of France and Russia, but every story needs a villain.

Next Chapter: The figure on the bed revealed.

Interested? I thought not.

Thank you for your patience and I hope your still interested enough to read this fic.

ThreeBlackRoses


	4. Fan the Flames

A/N: Re-upload of an edited version.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not the show, not the nations, heck, not even the clothes on my back. Feed the starving artist? Anyone?

Warnings: This will be one of the more violent chapters in the fic. The violence is largely psychological and will touch on some heavy subjects, such as the Holocaust and if that disturbs you, feel free to just skip on ahead. (please not this chapter is also somewhat pivotal, so it may take you a couple of chapters to catch up.)

_**4. Fan the Flames**_

Estonia leaned forward to reach for one of his medical instruments, so consumed by his work he failed to notice the rasp of the door behind him opening or the footsteps crossing the wooden floor behind him.

Only a frigid hand lain heavily upon his shoulder broke his concentration, sending him reeling away from his unseen visitor.

Russia raised a single eyebrow and stared, impassive as Estonia recovered his bearings and shakily restored his glasses to their original position, lightly balanced atop his nose. He peered over them with round green eyes, lit from within by a familiar terror.

Pointedly ignoring this, Russia looked away from him, to the figure prone on the bed before them. "Everything is proceeding normally, da?" he inquired, voice like shards of ice, frigid and sharp.

Estonia flinched, a motion as familiar as breathing to both men and one that went perpetually unnoticed within Ivan's household.

"Y-yes, Mr. Ivan," he stammered, tongue paralyzed by crushing terror. "As normal as can be expected, sir."

"Good," Ivan said, turning crisply on his heel. "Keep it that way. The time has come to wake him up, I believe. You have until seven this evening."

And with that, he was gone, a wake of terrible cold cutting its path behind him.

Estonia cursed to himself as the figure stirred once more, restless and agitated with pain.

_Nothing about this is normal_, he thought miserably to himself, turning back to his work with a lethargy born from sympathy.

* * *

For the first time in a time too long for counting, Prussia dreamt.

His dreams began as memories, playing like a movie reel, unfeeling and unchanging in its linear depiction of his life. He saw himself and West as young nations, nations in their prime and nations at their end.

_But West survived_, he thought, too lost in the stream of his visions to pay much attention to such depressing quandaries.

Slowly, though, his dreams became nightmares, filled by tall men with violet eyes and shadowed faces, men who broke him and ruined his people.

Then came the dark, and the silence, broken only by promises of safety, comfort and glory. He lost himself in these words, bathed in their light and filled his broken heart with their promise.

Once upon a time he himself had spoken such words to a young nation on the brink of destruction and, dimly, he wished that it was that nation's voice which spoke to him in his fevered stupor.

But the voice of the child – and the man he had become - remained lost in the impenetrable tomb of his memory.

Somewhere far above his head, the ice began to break, thrusting shafts of bright, sharp light into the comfortable blackness of his contrived coffin.

* * *

Despite Germany's brisk pace and unusually timely flights, he arrived home far into the night, so he hastened across the city towards his brother's new domain, hoping to catch him awake.

He made it perhaps half the necessary distance before realizing that something was terribly wrong.

In the manner of nations, he understood, intrinsically, that the silence that sat on the air boded ill, chilled by the haunting quality of its wrongness. He redoubled his pace, determined to discover the reason behind this unrest and desperately concerned for the well being of his brother.

He took no more than half a dozen steps before the sirens sounded and he lost himself, running madly for the border, drowning in a sea of white noise.

* * *

Sonja Klein gazed out of the window on the house's second story, her book hanging lackadaisically from one hand, bumping rhythmically against her knee in her inattention. The man asleep behind her shifted fitfully, sliding in and out of coherence so quickly she scarcely bothered to keep track.

For all that her employers had sent her to watch him, she was no nurse. And she resented being told to babysit this strange, sick man, rather than remaining at the utter vigilance required by her position, assuring that her nation, young and vulnerable as it was, remained safe.

Behind her, the man – Gilbert, she reminded herself forcefully – cried out in his sleep, and she turned away from the window, slid down off the sill and went to him, feeling his forehead for any sign of the fever she already knew to be raging there.

Sure enough, the fire just beneath his skin, already alarming, had become yet more pronounced. Sonja reached for the rag she kept soaking in cool water on the bedside stand, rung it out and expanded the cloth with a firm snap of her wrist. Folding it gently, she placed it across his forehead, dabbing with soft, but insistent pressure at those areas crusted over with dried sweat. She threw herself into this work for a moment, utterly determined to put her discontent form her mind.

After all, this poor, sick stranger deserved none of her ire and, judging by the look of him, he needed all the caring for he could get.

She was still sitting like that, one hand holding the cool towel to his forehead, the other dog-earring a page in her book to be resumed at a later date, when the door swung ominously open behind her.

Sonja pulled a quick about face, reaching for the gun so commonly holstered in the small of her back.

The gun sitting just beside the windowsill where she had set it not twenty minutes before to move more freely about the room.

The man at the door raised both hands in front of his chest in a placating gesture, entreating her patience and trust, both commodities Sonja stocked in perilously short supply.

Somewhat resignedly, she relaxed her position and beckoned the stranger in, motioning for him to stop just short of where she sat, reasonably within arm's reach but uncomfortably far away to try anything at any speed.

He halted when she indicated and made no motion beyond what stopping required of him, standing, face shadowed by his great hood and cowl.

"What do you want?" Sonja demanded, voice sharpened indefinitely by stress.

"I want," the man replied in his great baritone, long, tan scarf billowing around him, buoyed by the motion of his face as he spoke, "to kill Prussia."

Sonja stiffened, as much from the breath of cold, sharp air that invaded the room as he spoke as his invocation of the long-destroyed country. "You should be careful how you speak of Prussia here," she cautioned him darkly. "Too many people harbor too many memories to make the recollection an easy one.

"I, too, remember," he returned, catching her off guard.

She glared at him, considering. Behind her, the sleeping man rolled in agitation, calling out in his sleep to indistinct people.

"Listen to him," the stranger scoffed, his cold voice both abhorrently disgusted and thoughtfully ironic. "Sleeping, tossing, turning, walking and talking as though he had any right to grace the surface of this beautiful earth. He deserves to die, for keeping my Germany trapped, asleep for so long."

Sonja, her nerves frayed beyond their tolerance by this man and his cruel promises, sprang from her position on the bed. For a moment, she forgot the awkward distance between them and the fact that he undoubtedly foresaw her motion in the line of her reclining body. For a moment, she thought only of Gilbert, this near-stranger comatose behind her to whom her capable protection had been assigned.

Their visitor, caught almost unawares by her leap, jerked backwards, narrowly avoiding a blow intended to temporarily stun him at worst, blind him at best. As he flailed, off balance for a moment after her initial attack, she reached up, still reeling from her own momentum, and snatched the cowl from his head.

Livid violet eyes considered her from far above, and a hand large enough to encompass her own twice over reached up to seize her wrist.

"Impressive," the man complemented, with sentiment that failed to reach her eyes. "Your employers chose well when called upon to defend their nation, although they should know no man, woman or child could stand in my way."

"What on God's green earth _are_ you?" Sonja whispered, awed by his effortless strength, his cold, compelling eyes and the air of honest condolence, not conceit as he explained his prowess.

"That," he replied, "One such as yourself hardly needs to know. For our purposes here, tonight, I am Ivan."

"No last name?" she quipped with nervous wit, shaken yet again. Ivan made sense; the Russian accent rang unmistakably in her ears now that he made no effort to conceal it.

"Would you give me yours in a similar situation?" he asked, with no answering smile.

"Why does he need to die?" Sonja, tried, hoping that the change in topic would earn some kind of rise out of him.

"Because his living will kill my Germany," Ivan replied, not missing a beat.

His Germany? Sonja wondered silently. Aloud, she declared, "I cannot allow you to do that."

She wrenched her body to the side, a maneuver intending to rip her wrist free and pull Ivan to the ground. The throw was one of her favorites and it had brought taller men than Ivan to their knees before.

Had Sonja known that a nation held her by the wrist and that all the strength of Russia enforced that grip, she would have known that no throw, strike or dodge invented by mankind could have freed her.

As it was, she found out in good time anyway. As she flung herself to the side, ready to toss this insufferable threat to the ground, a force unlike any she had ever prepared herself to confront pulled her arm in the opposite direction, wrenching her off her feet and tossing her into the air. She crashed into the far wall and slid to the ground, ears ringing with the force of her impact.

"Silly girl," Ivan chastised her, grinning his childish grin, "I've come to kill a nation. To let a little thing like you interfere would defeat the purpose at its crux."

Sonja slumped where she landed, vision blurring as she fought to stay conscious. She observed, only dimly aware, as Ivan crossed the room to the sill where her gun rested. Picking up the weapon, he turned off the safety with a brisk flick of his thumb and wrist and carried it back to the bedside with him.

Sonja's mouth worked uselessly, pleas dying on her tongue at the blurred sight of Ivan's expression. Where his features had previously been cold, now they were carved from pure stone, unmoving and irreverent as rock.

All it took was a single shot, straight to the forehead, and Gilbert ceased to move, lying still and pale in a spreading stain of chilling red.

Sonja opened her mouth to scream from someone, anyone to come and help, but all that came out was a little wail of agonized acceptance; she knew no one could help the man now.

Her blood went cold as Ivan turned his chill to her once more and once again removed the safety on the gun.

"Do you want me to shoot you?" he asked her, all callous seriousness.

"No," she rasped in return, vision returning in margin and bringing some of her other sense back with it.

"Why not?" he inquired, flicking the safety back on. "Have you not failed in your mission entirely?"

"My mission is to defend my nation," Sonja shot back, struggling to her knees. "I should have been able to prevent you from killing him, yes, but that in no way affects my abilities in the field."

Rather than reply, Ivan laughed, a chilling, awful sound in the dark quiet of the room, now devoid of Gilbert's restless agony.

"If you only knew who he was," Ivan chuckled. "If you only knew. Perhaps you can ask him. I'd like to think I've put the poor soul out of his pretender's misery, but in the way of nations, I suppose he'll be back until I've utterly crushed East Germany."

"What are you?" Sonja ground out again, looking up through her bangs into his coolly amused face.

"I am many things," he replied easily. "I am the man who just killed Prussia. I am also the man who is burning your city."

He pointed out the window and Sonja wrenched her neck around only to be met with the sight of her beloved Berlin, as the living embers of new flames took root in buildings.

"Why?" she gasped, aghast at this underhanded attack and appalled that she could do nothing to save her country.

"To remind your people who they really belong to. Kalingrad should still be part of Russia. I, like you, am making my people's dreams a reality."

"Get out!" Sonja shrieked, lurching to her feet and jerking towards Ivan as though she meant to strike him.

With one last frigid grin, Ivan tossed her gun loftily across the room, and easily deflected her blow, knocking her down with less crushing force this time, before turning on his heel and walking back out the door without bothering to close it behind him.

"Deliver us, Lord," Sonja whispered, rising to her knees and clutching her throbbing arm to her chest in the wake of Ivan's terrible exit, her city burning bright and fast though the window behind her, casting light enough to carry her crouching shadow to the door's now-empty threshold.

* * *

The moment Germany heard the sirens begin to sound like some eerie chorus of doomed souls, he began to run, shortening the distance between himself and his brother by the moment. For the first few stunned moments, he ran alone as his city found its bearings and registered the catastrophe on its doorstep. Then, as though pulled by magnetism, his people came, rushing into the streets like a flood of panic, rage and fear given form and flight.

Finally catching sight of a man dressed in the uniform of a military officer, Germany redoubled his pace and reached the gentleman, panting an inquiry as to what exactly was _happening_ out here.

The man looked him over for a surprised moment, then, taking in his crisp uniform and forward manner, accepted him as another soldier.

Without immediately answering, he pointed to the middle of the city of Berlin, to the very location of that ancient and hideous wall Germany had fought so hard to put from his mind.

There, stretched like a scar across the face of a city no longer exclusively his, a line of people stood. Men, women, children, all chained to one another and tethered in place, an impenetrable wall of human flesh guarded by armed soldiers in Russian uniform. Behind them, flames had begun to leap from building to building with the merciless, indiscriminate rage of fire.

"We can't get through," the officer explained, sounding exhausted and frustrated. "We can't even get close. They're shooting civilians for every time we try."

"These people will die, left to stand out like that," Germany snarled, livid with rage.

"East Germany's population could sustain a line like that, refreshed each day, for weeks on end," the officer replied, looking down, away from the angry, searching eyes of the man he didn't know to be his nation.

"By that time," he continued, "They could have built a thousand walls."

The soldier bid him a hasty goodbye and left to rejoin his fellows as they puzzled out a way to overcome this wall of human flesh, leaving Germany alone to gaze at the screaming barrier and fight the helpless tears that threatened to spill.

He had to do something. As he descended the hill, that thought alone kept him moving.

* * *

Ivan's bulk filled Prussia's vision the moment his eyes opened. Somewhere in the background, another shape huddled, pressed as near to the wall as it could manage without sinking into the paneling.

Dimly he realized that he should be afraid, but his head throbbed and his body ached with such resounding pain that he could scarcely bring himself to recognize the man, much less react to his presence.

Ivan smiled down at the figure on the bed, held captive by his own exhaustion and reached out a hand to stroke a stray strand of his white hair back from his face.

Vaguely, Prussia realized that in any other situation, one might call Ivan's smile beautific, for the joyful light hiding just beyond his eyes and the relief that shone through in every crease of his weathered face. One might call it kind.

"Welcome home, Germany," his captor whispered, reverent and gentle.

Germany… Prussia thought as he drifted back into the reassuring sameness of sleep. He knew a Germany, in the once-upon-a-time of his memories.

_end chapter_

A/N: Just gotta say, Ivan creeps me the hell out. I mean, really. Can't he just pick a mood and stick with it?

So, now you know. The figure on the bed is Prussia. (big surprise) And yes, I realize I have completely forgotten about Italy thus far. Germany's had a lot on his plate recently. Our favorite bumbling protagonist will make his entrée sometime in the next two chapters.

As some of you may have noticed, as well, I seldom use the nation's native languages. I find this cumbersome to add into a fic written deliberately in English and will continue to omit such occurrences until it becomes entirely too problematic. I will, however, keep speech tics (da?, veeee…, oui, ect.) because they are basically part of the characters.

So, if my Russia speaks uncommonly precise English, that's why.

In other news, I'd apologize for how late this is, but I'm sure the few of you that regularly check back are as sick of hearing it as I am of saying it. If you like this fic, fave it and hang on to your trousers, because I won't stop updating, I'll just continue at this tortoise-like pace.

Thanks for your attention folks,

Next chapter: Canada and England's respective, ah...conundrums.


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